There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you. - Maya Angelou

We all have those moments of fear that if we speak, should we speak, we will not be understood-- will not be met with love. There is so much bravery in speaking when your voice feels shaky, or when choosing to stand beside someone who feels alone. Making that choice is hard. And when someone chooses to make it, to stand in their own voice, it is an honor to be present. To listen. To understand. ​And to choose love.At HWHV, we choose love. ​~Melissa

I’ve a thing to tell you.

But it scares me to tell you.

I don’t want to lose this part of my life.I worry that telling you will cause you to distance yourself even more from me.I already feel that I've lost a lot of community, simply by no longer being an actual military spouse.After my divorce, I felt and still feel as though I really shouldn’t still be here.But everyone’s kept welcoming me, so I’ve stayed.

But this, I don’t know.

So I’m afraid.

And the current mindset in the USA towards Trans people is not encouraging.

And then I realized that I’m not the only one with this.And I would be doing a disservice to those like me if I continued to hide who I am.I’ve a responsibility to tell my story.

To actually be fully in public who I am, if I'm able.

No matter the response.

Because I know that when we stand up for our own stories, it gives solidarity to those who can’t speak up yet, it lets them know they are not alone.

Over the last few months, I’ve been slowly changing how I tell my story, because it’s not the safest of things to speak of at this point in time.

And I’ve come to realize that not speaking out loud my reality is not only doing myself a disservice, but also telling others that their own self is not worth speaking of.

What do you do, when you don't even know how to start dreaming for yourself and the dreams others have for you have not only fallen apart, but never rang true at all? How do you find what you truly long for?

“Second star to the right, and straight on ‘til morning”But morning never comesAll that’s here is strands of bits of the dreamsOf other peopleI can’t even see the light at the end ofThe tunnel anymoreNo sign of Morningor that light they promise comesWith every tunnel, money back guaranteeI’ve run out of batteriesTrying to keep running down this pathEveryone tells me I should be onOver thereIn the corner of my eyeThere’s a bit of lightA sparkEveryone saysIt’s not realIt’s not worth itStay on this path with usBecome more in lineWith the expectedI don’t want to liveA lifePlotted and planned outMapped like a known quantityI plan to live in the spacesWhich decry:HERE THERE BE DRAGONSLet everyone around mePublicly denounceWho I amAnd the paths I chose to takeBecauseIf I must liveIt must be on my termsHERE THERE BE DRAGONSAnd one otherStrivingTo just beMoreThan what was written for me

Sometimes, we lose parts of ourselves we never meant to give up or turn away from.We get lost in the dialogue of who we think we should be, or how others think we should be.It's not a failing. It's part of how we learn to be stronger, to hold true to ourselves.Sometimes, this lesson comes later in life than it does for others.May you learn it, as quickly as possible, with as little loss as can be had.

I gave away my kitchen table.

I was so proud of it, I’d bought it with money I’d earned myself, from one of the few jobs I was able to find after I was married and moved to GA. Jobs for cooks, especially military spouse cooks, are few and far between-well, the ones you’d actually want to have, anyway. Not to mention, there’s not much in the way of options when you don’t really have regular transportation except during deployments and you’re outside of Fort Stewart.It wasn’t really a “kitchen table”, it was a little sofa table, the sort that you place behind your sofa, or in the entry hallway-long and narrow.What drew me to it, though, was the fact that the top was actually two leaves that folded out, with clever little arms that slid inside when not being used to brace the expanded width.I could seat 4-6 people at it. It was perfect for what I wanted.

When I was growing up, all meals were eaten around the kitchen table. While they rarely were happy meals, it was still a part of what I’d been raised to believe that homes had.Everyone I knew, growing up, had a kitchen table that they ate their meals at.The dream of a happy family, everyone gathered together, enjoying the meal as a family.Entertaining guests. Having holiday meals.It was just what you did. What you aimed for.

There were a few, a very few meals at that table. Shared with a small handful of my husband’s team members, or other couples from the unit.Mostly though, we’d sit in the living room, on the sofa, the floor, etc.When it was just my husband and I, we’d eat in the living room, watching tv or a movie.

I still dreamed of it though.

In the years after I left my parent’s home, before I was married, I had never owned a kitchen table. I’d always eat at my desk, or on my sofa, generally reading while I ate. I never saw the need for it.The dream of a happy family around a table wasn’t something that I really was looking for, or wanted, or even needed.

And then I was married.It was as if a switch was flipped in my head, and I suddenly felt as if I needed a kitchen table of some kind, any kind, in order to actually build a proper home.

I was so proud of that table.

After my divorce from my husband, I carried that table with me.It followed me into a tiny, 350 square foot studio, to a 4 months brief roommate situation, to my current space.

At no point, in the almost 5 years I’ve been divorced, have I actually used it as a kitchen table.It’s been an excellent cat lounging space, a spot to drop items rather than put them away, a silent reminder that I failed to create the home I realized that some small part of me longs to believe I want.

A few weeks ago, I was gifted a lovely steamer trunk by a friend who was downsizing due to a move.I knew almost exactly how I wanted to set it up in my apartment, what I was going to use it for, and how it would change to flow and feel of the space it was in.And then I realized that the only way that it would work would be if I moved the table.But I didn’t have any place to move it to.And then, as I sat there, considering how I was going to move everything around to suit myself and the space, a little thought popped up in my head.

Why did I still have that table?

I’d never really, truly used it in the manner I’d hoped to.

There is nothing in my life that requires a kitchen table.

I’d never really, truly wanted the sort of life that I felt required a kitchen table, I’d only felt the urge to do what I’d been taught was “proper”.

So why was I holding onto something that did me no good, took up space, and, quite honestly, reminded me not only of my ex-husband but also the sadness of my childhood and the demands of “propriety”?

The exact moment that I realized all of that, I took the bolts holding the top to the legs, and posted it for pickup in my buy nothing group.

It was gone, 6 hours or so later.

My heart has a small, rectangle shaped hole in it, the loss of something missing that was familiar, the ache of the death of a dream I was told I should have.

​I can feel it filling back up, though, with the pieces of myself and my own, actually my own, dreams and knowledge of who I am, a person who does not need a kitchen table to create a home, to feed others, to bring them together.

Growth and rebirth are always painful.

Welcome back, to one more part of myself I hadn’t even realized that I had lost.

I haven't been on any kind of military base or to any kind of military anything or really talked to anyone active duty or retired or their family or anything except briefly on social media in years now.

Years.

My "connection" the military ended, legally, on the day my divorce was finalized.Technically, the day I turned my ID card to the MPs at the station right outside the main gate at JBLM.Emotionally, it's lingered on. While I doubt my right to any kind of connection, to any kind of say.

And yeah, I still have friends, many of them very near and dear to me, still involved in military life.

But not me.

No more FRG, no more waiting for him to come home from work from the field from school from deployment.No more having to learn to adjust life around injury schedule PTSD TBI.

My memories of being an Army spouse are both clear and completely faded.

I no longer have the sharp edge of knowledge, of current concerns, of my life balancing on an edge that has nothing to do with me or what I hope for.

So why am I here.

Why am I still talking to you.

Why am I still listening.

Because my story is not uncommon.

Because I am still a part of it, even having moved on.

Because those still in the thick of it tell me that I have the right to my story and my words, while honestly wondering if they have the right to theirs or if anyone would even want to hear what they have to say anymore.They remind me that life is not just about military. Life contains a multitude, of all kinds and all stories, and to deny that denies a fundamental part of what makes us who we are, and silences the words and lives and stories of others.That sometimes, often times, people need to hear about more than just the one view that can be life as seen through the active duty military dependent lens.

DoneFinallyAnother stress filled jaw clenching shit ass excuse for a crap ass dayFull of bullshitStressThings I can not changeExpectations I can not make

But here now, this box next to meStare at itCans filled with maybe slight ease

Crack slight hissPossible release

Everyone knows I don’t really drink hard stuff any moreBut does that count whenEveryone knows I can drain a tall boy in under ten minutes not even trying this little bitty 12 ounce can of almost nothing maybe I can squeeze another couple in beforeShitIt’s past time for bed

I’m sober enoughWouldn’t drive but not yetStupid except for what the voices sayHush up

Bed time nowGonna sleep but can’t even with the cans the silence found half way between the push of stress and the push of slumber lost in the panic that splits the night up at 3am no more sleep okay one or two more just to take the edge offFineWe’ll start trying the meds juggle the balance between the bottles cans and pills the hard heavy push to drown out push down the panic jaw clenching memories knowing that the day next comes too soon that edge is sharp don’t get too smart you’ll cut yourself

Sober is as sober does do your job do your due diligence do your deeds don’t fuck up it’ll all come out in the wash

It’s turtles all the way down

Staring sideways into the mirror are you ever going to sleep again can you sleep without something bearing you down into that darkness the panic the dark of the terror is too much to let that soft dark inHow much longer before the flat heavy darkness of the crack slight hiss pushes you past the end of the dark you can come back from

I don’t know about you my friend but

I make no plans for next year

If you need help, please reach out.We have been here. Lived here. You can learn to make plans for next year.Please, reach out. To us, or one of these groups:

Here’s the thing that people forget to tell youAboutThe things which injured you in the pastThe thingsThat you “should”HaveOrCurrently shouldBe doing

No matter how healthy it is to walk away from itNo matterThe bloodAnd traumaThat would come from following thatPathInto the rest of your life

There is lossEven if it was someone you should walk away fromEven if it is realizing that those babiesIn the bearingWould very possibly, literally kill youThe jobWhich brought so much securityButSlow destroyed whoYouAre

There isThere will beMourningFor those dreams you dreamed of and withThat which you held for however long

Deen

MY STORY

I never thought I'd end up married, never mind to a military man. It was a whirlwind engagement, and a whirlwind marriage. And, like most whirlwinds, left more than a little bit of a mess behind. Some of it mine, some of it his, a lot of it both of ours. The first time I heard about the Her War, Her Voice facebook page, I wasn't sure what to expect. I don't fit the mold, I don't fit the norm of what people think of when they think military spouse. So I always felt outside and alone. So, I did what I always do. I sat and watched. And watched, and thought about what I was seeing. And learned the power of someone honestly saying to me "You are not alone. I feel that way too." I was lucky enough to be on the very first retreat. Since then, I've worked at each retreat, trying to express to those there the same feeling of belonging, of someone honestly, without judgement, caring for them. No matter what. The friends and family I have gained through Her War, Her Voice have and continue to be some of the dearest I have, and don't care that I can't always express my care and love the way that they do. There's nothing so very much like home to know that someone gets it, and has got your back, no matter what. I won't lie, it's not been easy. It's still not easy. But I know that I've got the support to help me get past all of this, and make it better. (Deen also runs the blogs on this site. To contact her, email deen@herwarhervoice.com)